


Champagne, Cocaine, Gasoline

by CoffeeWithConsequences



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bad Decisions, Depression, Drugs, Drunk Sex, Gen, Inappropriate Behavior, Partying, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 07:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15190109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/pseuds/CoffeeWithConsequences
Summary: The image of All-American Party Boy Kent Parson might be good for business, but is it good for Kent? A look at Kent's lifestyle his first few years in Las Vegas.Warnings for depressed behavior, alcohol abuse, drug use, sex under the influence, and generally dangerous behavior.





	Champagne, Cocaine, Gasoline

**Author's Note:**

> A few days ago, I stumbled on the [Kent Parson Playlist](https://kentsmashkov.tumblr.com/post/175360380907/check-out-this-kent-playlist-of-100-songs-i) on Tumblr. When I listened to it, one song caught my attention in particular--Panic! At The Disco's "Don't Threaten Me With a Good Time." Before I knew it, I was mining the lyrics and writing this story.

The first thing Kent did when he woke up was trying to sit up and smack his head against a glass coffee table. Groaning, he laid back down to assess his situation. A few things were clear immediately: His head hurt before the smack, and even more now. His mouth tasted like something died in it. His stomach was rolling in a way that indicated he needed to find a bathroom soon. A second round of assessment gave him more information: He was wearing only his underwear. He was lying underneath a coffee table. The coffee table was not his.

After taking a few minutes to gather his strength, Kent slid himself out from underneath the table and sat up. Looking around, he saw three other people, similarly undressed and similarly passed out. The room appeared to be in a moderately nice hotel.

“Jesus Christ, Parson,” he muttered under his breath. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Standing tentatively, he looked around for his clothes. Gathering them, he spared quick glances for the other people. There were two women and one man. All were tan and fit, attractive in a Las Vegas way. None were anybody Kent knew. Kent had no idea where he was, how he’d gotten here, what drugs he’d done, or if he’d slept with any or all of them.

Relieved, Kent found his wallet, keys, and phone in his pants. He dressed quickly and quietly. He should probably wake at least one of the others and introduce himself, but he wasn’t going to. Better to make a getaway if he could. He left the room quietly.

Outside, Kent verified that he was indeed in a hotel--Four Seasons on the Strip. Not the worst place he’d woken up recently. He checked his pockets for a valet tag, but didn’t find one, so he called an Uber and hoped to find his car waiting for him when he got home.

Kent knew he was out of hand. He knew because everybody kept telling him--his teammates, his coaches, the Aces beleaguered PR team. That said, he was playing good hockey--great hockey, really--so none of them had much room to threaten him. The coaches occasionally made gestures toward scratching him, when he skipped curfew and went all-night on a roadie, but they had a hard time following through while he was their leading scorer. The media ate it up--publishing pictures of Kent drunk in clubs, or Kent making an early morning walk of shame, or cornering him for a quote when he was already tanked and getting video of his profanity-laden trash talk. Those things got him in trouble with PR, but really, all they could do was threaten. After a lifetime of it, Kent wasn’t terribly susceptible to intimidation via threat.

Kent breathed a sigh of relief as he opened his apartment door. His car had was outside, so he’d apparently made at least one good choice the previous evening. Kit walked up to him with a high head, looking as judgmental as only a cat can. “I know, I know,” he muttered at her. “Save it for after I’ve showered, huh?” He gave her new food and water before he headed to the bedroom. She meowed crankily after him.

Stripping off his clothes, Kent smelled the night before on himself, giving a few more clues. Spilled liquor and smoke were par for the course. He smelled perfume, too. And something that could have been gasoline? There was a burn hole in the sleeve of his flannel and a suspicious white stain on the front of his jeans. He made a face as he threw the whole lot into the laundry basket. As he had so many times before, he sent up a silent apology to Miranda, his housekeeper, who had to deal with his nastiness.

After brushing his teeth for two rounds of electric toothbrush timing, Kent climbed in the shower. Only after the water had been pounding down on him for a few minutes did he take stock of his body. The post-game twinges and soreness from the night before were to be expected--part of a pattern so ingrained he barely registered it. Left shoulder, right wrist, lower back, both knees. Nothing seemed particularly bad, which was good news, as they had another game tomorrow. He didn’t see any marks on his skin, beyond the expected bruises. His dick was a little sore, but he didn’t feel as if he’d been fucked. He recalled being at a club, talking to some girls, but he wasn’t sure they were the same girls as the ones he’d left in the hotel, and he didn’t remember there being a guy with them. Maybe that happened later. “I hope you kept it wrapped, you stupid fucker,” he muttered to himself as he put his head under the hot spray.

Kent’s reputation as a party boy started well before he hit Vegas. He and Jack had burned a path across Quebec when they were at Rimouski, moving out of typical teenage shenanigans and into mature debauchery by the time they were 17. They’d gotten into clubs with fake IDs and an air of celebrity, taken most of the drugs they’d been offered, and started drinking like they meant it. Even before they started fucking each other, they’d both fucked around with lots of girls, sometimes in their shared hotel rooms, sometimes at the same time. There was a short path from that to the brutal, relentless, destructive way they turned toward and then turned on each other.

After Jack went to rehab and Kent was drafted to the Aces, he slowed down. He wasn’t exactly scared straight, but he was frightened enough, lonely enough, and far enough out of his league, that he pulled back quite a bit. He focused on his hockey, which got better every day. He was shy around his new teammates, allowing them to treat him like a kid. It was nice, being treated like a kid--it had been quite a while since anybody thought of him that way.

After the season started, though, nobody had time or effort to baby him anymore. It took only a few games for Kent to realize that, no matter how hard his coaches before tried, there was nothing that could have prepared him the for the relentless pressure of playing professional hockey. He barely caught his breath. Sometimes he laid in bed at night and thought about Jack, with his little pills to help him breathe, to help him sleep, and he was jealous. He knew those pills had nearly cost Jack his life, and may have cost him his career, but Kent still wished he had some.

Midway through his first season, after a huge and unexpected win over the Bruins, Kent went out with this team. It wasn’t his first time out with them, but it was his first time after having a really exceptional two-goal game. Everybody was buying him drinks, and nobody questioned having a 19-year-old at the bar. Kent drank everything they put in front of him, getting happier and warmer and more comfortable with each drink.

He woke up in horrible shape, of course, with his phone full of drunk selfies and texts, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it. For the first time since Jack’s OD, he felt like he had friends, like he wasn’t just some kid pretending. Drinking got him out of his own head, above his own worries. He’d forgotten how much fun it was.

After the first few times, Kent didn’t just tag along to the occasional after-game party--he instigated them. The other younger players, those without families, were usually all too happy to go along, whether it was to a sports bar to watch games with pitchers of beer or (Kent’s preference, though he didn’t make that known) a hot, crowded dance club, drinking well cocktails and grinding. Kent loved these nights. The more he drank, the more he felt capable of being the person he was expected to be--Kent Fucking Parson, New NHL It-Boy.

At an early meeting with Aces PR, he’d been told flat-out that his “Wholesome Party Boy” persona was good for the franchise, and good for his endorsement prospects. “America loves a man who is just a little bit bad, but also sweet as pie,” they’d explained. “With your All-American blonde-with-freckles thing, and your willingness to drink and dance and have a good time, you’ll be perfect. So long as you don’t overdo it.”

It turned out they ought to have emphasized that last part a bit more. Maybe written it down. You didn’t actually get to be as good at anything as Kent Parson was at hockey without having a capacity to overdo it. Beyond that, when it came to overdoing it, Kent spent his teenage years learning from the best.

At the end of his first season with the Aces, Kent won a Calder. He’d expected it, but that didn’t make it any less sweet to hoist it above his head and grin, getting his picture taken on stage. He made a simple speech, playing up his “I’m just a hockey bro, don’t expect me to say anything too smart” charm. It kind of made him itchy, talking that way, but the PR folks assured him it was good for business.

Later, at the post-awards party, he ran into Bob Zimmermann. After a few minutes of awkward conversation about Kent’s season, Bob told him Jack had decided to go to college, to play hockey in a less stressful atmosphere, get his degree, and see where it took him. Kent was flabbergasted. He tried hard not to think about Jack, but when he did, he assumed he’d hear any day that Jack was going to be signed somewhere as a free agent. Sure, he’d hit a rough patch, but he was a hockey prince.

“Samwell?” Kent asked, his voice a little shaky. “Where’s that?”

“Massachusetts,” Bob answered. “Alicia went there, actually. She thinks it will be a good place for Jack.”

“But...for hockey?” Kent didn’t even know what to say.

Bob nodded. “It’s an NCAA school, but they haven’t had great teams in the past couple of decades.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe Jack can change that, eh?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Kent wished he could think of something better to say, but he didn’t need to, as Bob politely excused himself from the conversation.

“Anyway, great to see you, Parson. You’ve been a pleasure to watch this season.”

After Bob left, Kent sat down at an empty table. He’d always wanted Bob Zimmermann’s praise--nearly so much as he wanted Jack’s. It felt empty now. There was no way Bob was looking at him and not thinking about how much better Jack would have done, if he’d been where he was meant to be.

Kent shook his head. He wasn’t fucking doing this tonight. He just won a fucking Calder, he should be happy. He motioned to a server and snagged a glass of champagne off her tray, then went to find his teammates.

In Kent’s second season, the Aces won the Stanley Cup. Kent got more press than any other hockey player in the country. He was on the cover of _Sports Illustrated_. He did the _ESPN Body Issue_. He shot commercials for Under Armour and Ray-Bans. He did interviews, not just for _Sports Center_ , but for _Good Morning America_ and _The Today Show_. He was on _Ellen_. Fan sites dedicated to him exploded, and someone started an Official Kent Parson Fan Club. There were, he was told, hundreds of stories about him online, written mostly by women, putting him in all sorts of fantastic situations, with a variety of partners. It was all he could do to resist looking for them.

Kent loved it. He loved the praise and the attention. He loved the fucking money--he bought a $200,000 car. He loved people recognizing him on the street, and he loved being able to get into any club or restaurant in Vegas, even though he still wasn’t 21. He loved the girls who flocked to him, no expectations and no inhibitions. He loved the guys who, more and more often, did the same. By the time he had his turn hoisting the heavy Cup over his head, he was at the metaphorical top of the world.

He was still haunted by Jack. When he was home alone, flipping through the channels in his boxers, he was haunted by Jack. When he couldn’t sleep, when he ran without music, when he tried to cook himself dinner in his silent apartment, he thought about Jack. So, he mostly didn’t do those things. On nights with no game, he went out. He often didn’t come home until morning, with just enough time to shower and get to practice. On nights with games, he often went out after. He surrounded himself with noise and booze and people, and he didn’t think about Jack at all.

By his fifth year with the Aces, Kent was made captain. It was an honor he nearly didn’t get--it came with a lecture about his behavior from the coaches and GM, and the solicitation of a promise to do better. Though he tried to hide it under the blasé exterior he’d been cultivating, Kent was moved nearly to tears to get the C, and he meant it when he promised to clean up his act. He was a role model now, he told himself. 23, captain of a Stanley Cup-winning team, leading the league in goals, making millions a year. Now was not the time to fuck up.

For a while, it worked. Kent didn’t completely settle down, but he cut way back, and he made attempts toward discretion. He even tried out two real relationships, where he saw the woman more than once, they went out on dates, they spent time together sober. Neither lasted long. Both women were elated at the beginning, to be dating NHL superstar Kent Parson, but quickly grew tired of the mood cycles, the excessive drinking, and the tendency toward alternating cruelty and being completely ignored. Both break-ups were messy, and neither contributed good things to Kent’s reputation. After the second one, he decided it was best to go back to casual sex only.

Slowly, Kent’s attempts at good behavior receded. After avoiding them since the Q, he rediscovered drugs. Nothing dangerous, just the occasional joint, some molly at a club, maybe a line of coke at a party. He started getting invited to parties where designer drugs came around on trays, five thousand people in a high rise building, each of them on their own high. It was a good time, nothing more.

One day, halfway through the season, Kent woke up wearing spike heels and no pants. He had a vague memory of The Strip, making a bet about throwing wads of paper into a trashcan. Losing and trading shoes with a stripper. He laughed, but he also checked Tumblr and Instagram and Twitter, searching every hashtag he could think of to make sure nobody had been taking pictures. Later, after he’d sobered up, Kent put the shoes back on and walked around his apartment in them, considering. He didn’t hate it.

Now, Kent was lying on the floor of his shower (after he’d started throwing up into the drain, standing got too hard), trying to remember a goddamn thing about the three people he’d woke up naked with, and wondering if maybe he’d lost control somewhere. He’d always thought that if he were running too hard, it would show in his hockey. That hadn’t happened--his hockey was beautiful. But Jack’s hockey had been beautiful, too, right up until Kent found him not breathing on the floor.

What do you do, Kent wondered, when you’re the franchise face captain of a successful expansion team, located in the most vice-driven city in the country, and you think you’re losing your grip? Get a therapist? A guru? Reiki? A colonic? To whom do you reach out when your grasp gets more tentative every day, and you aren’t really even sure what you’re holding on to anymore?

Kent sat on his bed, naked and barely dried off, still shivering with excessive, hungover adrenaline. He thumbed through the contacts on his phone. Teammates, mostly. A few family members with whom he had no real relationships. A few friends from the Q. Both ex-girlfriends. Jack’s number was still there, but Kent never used it anymore--after the first twenty or so unanswered messages, you get the idea. Kent was crying by the time he realized he literally had nobody to call.

Finally, Kent got dressed, found his angry cat, and forced her into a cuddle. She calmed him enough for a nap to be possible. It’ll be fine, he told himself as he went to sleep. There was no training today, so after he rested, he’d just get up, get dressed, and go out again. That would make him feel better.

**Author's Note:**

> Please come visit me on [Tumblr](https://coffeewithconsequences.tumblr.com/) or read the rest of my fic here at [Archive of Our Own](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/works)!


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